Man from Carcassonne

Jack Duval

Description

HAUNTING... CHILLING... DISTURBINGThe Man from Carcassonne is dark psychological fiction at its best, combining charismatic characters with atmospheric settings, revealing the secret world of a psychopath.Set in the cities of Carcassonne, Toulouse and Paris, the story follows the life of fractured child Hugo as he becomes a man; his psyche twisted by events over which he has little control. With echoes of Patrick Sskind's Perfume, this dark novel is far more than the usual multiple-murder thriller. Duval writes with unashamed frankness about the depravity of the human condition, refusing to be silenced and drawing the reader into a desperate world where justice is everything, no matter what the price.The Man from Carcassonne will appeal to readers interested not only in the act of murder and the psychopath that commits it, but in the often-untold tale of human frailty that lies beneath. Volume two to follow.

Sujets

• Psychological thriller
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 03 juillet 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838596606
• Langue: English

Extrait

Jack Duval is a pseudonym of B. A. Cibulskas . The Man from Carcassonne is the first novel in her psychological thriller series. Born in England to refugee and economic migrants, she studied at the University of Bristol where she was awarded a doctorate in Narrative and Life Story Research. Her working life is split between writing and as a clinical psychotherapist in the mental health sector.

She also writes European fiction under her own name and world fiction under the pseudonym A. K. Karla .



Other books by the author


Mr Gupta’s Hardware Store

The House of Rani Kapur

Harish Hope and the Earls of Wishanger Hall

(A. K. Karla)



The Interloper

(B. A. Cibulskas)






Copyright © 2020 Jack Duval
The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1838596 606

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd



Men’s finest works bear the persistent marks of pain.
What would there be in a story of happiness?

(André Gide)


Contents
PROLOGUE FEBRUARY 2015

ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE

EPILOGUE FEBRUARY 2015
Author’s Note


PROLOGUE
PARIS
FEBRUARY 2015
‘Hugo Moreau de Bellay, you are free to go.’
The prison officer stood in the doorway of the small cell, and studied the powerfully built man sat on the narrow bunk in front of him. Despite his imminent release, Hugo remained absolutely still, his eyes cast downwards as though he had not heard the declaration of freedom at all. At his request the room was left to fall into darkness as the winter evening progressed. The searchlights outside scanned the yard and high walls, throwing intermittent beams of light through the narrow barred window in the far corner. Each beam lit the room illuminating the prisoner at the same time, then plunging both back into shadowy darkness as it moved on, every twenty seconds or so.
The officer shuddered, thinking how fitting this was to the man in front of him. He was a strange one, that was for sure. Always polite, quietly spoken, helpful to the officers and a perfect gentleman, yet there was something amiss. Even the other inmates sensed it and left him alone, rarely involving him in their banter or bullying.
It wasn’t just his bulk that kept them away, nor the rather formal way he spoke which sounded out of place for someone in their mid-twenties. There was something more than that… It was impossible to say quite what was wrong, but one oddity could be seen in the small, covert sideways glances he made – his head rigid like he was in a trance; his body taut as a stretched wire.
Yes, the eyes were always a giveaway, and Moreau’s pale blue ones were forever watchful and alert, even when he was lying down. In fact, he hardly seemed to sleep at all… Still, the psychiatrist had declared him fit for release and that was that! What happened afterwards was nothing to do with him. He coughed and Hugo looked up.
‘C’mon, Moreau, don’t you want to leave? You just need to sign for the rest of your stuff and you’re out.’
‘Of course, Officer,’ replied Hugo, standing up and towering over the guard by some seven or eight inches, his broad shoulders and muscular arms barely concealed by the white linen shirt he was given a few hours earlier.
‘Sorry, I was daydreaming. It’ll be so strange to be outside again. That’s why I chose to leave when it was dark. A cloak to hide under as it were.’
‘A cloak? Well yes, it will be strange at first I suppose, two years is a long time, but you’ve got plenty of support arranged and a home to go to. I’m sure you’ll be fine. There’s money in your wallet and a taxi’s waiting to take you to the station. This way… Now sign here.’
Hugo signed for his few belongings and followed the officer through the corridors and various check points. They finally left the main prison and entered a small floodlit enclosed yard, where several silent guards with machine guns slung low across their bodies were waiting to escort him from the premises.
‘Good luck Moreau, and don’t come back!’ Surprisingly, the officer held out his hand and Hugo shook it firmly, smiling.
‘Thank you for your care. It really was much appreciated,’ he replied, his deep yet soft voice dulled further by the fine rain that had now started to fall, landing on his dark gold-flecked hair and eyebrows in small glittering droplets.
How typical of Moreau the officer thought, scanning the clean-shaven face for any signs of mockery or sarcasm. There were none, and he continued to watch as the now ex-prisoner walked through the heavy iron door to the outside world. As it slammed behind him Hugo stopped for a moment to take a final look at the high wall, barbed wire stretched across its top; the search lights moving endlessly backwards and forwards over the tall buildings inside.
The cab driver sounded the horn impatiently and Hugo hurried over, slinging his bag onto the rear seat then climbing in after it. Leaning forward he spoke to the driver. ‘The station – Gare d’Austerlitz please.’ Almost immediately the car sped away, the prison quickly disappearing into the dark November night.
An hour later he walked into the busy station, stopping to buy a ticket and some cigarettes from the machines on the platform. Leaning against a wall he took a Gauloises from the pack and lit it, inhaling deeply, the plume of exhaled smoke hovering around his head before drifting off into the damp night air. Within minutes the TGV heading south towards Carcassonne pulled in, and throwing the cigarette to the floor, he stamped it out under his foot before tossing the rest of the packet into a bin. He had never smoked before prison, and once home had no intention of ever smoking again. He flung open the nearest door and stepped onto the train. Hurrying down its entire length Hugo apologised as people stepped aside to let him pass.
‘Excuse me, so sorry, thank you, how kind,’ he repeated, until he reached the very last door. At this point he took a black wool hat from his pocket, pulling it low over his forehead and turning up his coat collar at the same time. Just as the whistle blew for the train to depart he jumped back down onto the platform, walking with the ever-shifting crowd to the exit and into one of the dozens of taxis waiting at the front of the station.
‘Where to?’ the driver asked, setting the clock without even glancing back to see who had got in.
‘Montmartre – Place St. Pierre. Thank you.’ Hugo leant back in his seat and sighed. Not long now. He had waited some considerable time for this moment and, closing his eyes, allowed himself to be lulled by the movement of the cab as it sped through the streets of Paris. Being a driver wasn’t a bad job. If he ever needed to earn a living he would certainly consider a life of perpetual motion whilst sealed in a motorised capsule – the only aim being the next destination, and then the next one, ad infinitum. It was the ultimate in avoidance…
Opening his eyes he unzipped the bag and took out one of two pairs of black woollen gloves, both still wrapped in their cellophane. Putting them on he carefully straightened the fingers, then held out his hands in front of him to check their appearance. Back in the bag he pulled out a narrow scarlet silk tie which he tucked into his coat pocket. Gazing out of the cab window, he watched as the streets passed by. Then, suddenly alert, he leant forward and spoke to the driver.
‘You can pull over just here on the left – that’s fine. Keep the change.’ Standing on the pavement Hugo watched as the cab turned the corner before disappearing altogether. Crossing the square he turned into a side-street which led to a narrow alley that ran behind the various shops and restaurants. Overflowing dustbins and bags of rubbish lined the sides of the wet cobbled path. The stench of rotting food, dog mess and urine was overwhelming, and he paused for a moment to look around him. The poorly-lit alley was empty apart from two dogs. Startled by his sudden appearance they growled and snarled menacingly as they tore open a bag and scavenged amongst the waste, their almost-yellow eyes narrowing as they assessed the intruder. Kicking an empty can in their direction Hugo hurried past, quickly scanning each building before finally stopping.
On his left was the rear yard of a restaurant, and sit